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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127463">Wicked Games</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/literatecrow/pseuds/literatecrow'>literatecrow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stronghold: Western AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Neverwinter (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:01:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/literatecrow/pseuds/literatecrow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Deputy of Stronghold got there somehow. Warlock or Witch, Alaryk's past has a habit of following him no matter who he is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stronghold: Western AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Whispers From the Grave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>“Witchblood.”</i> The voice was airless and dry but still her voice was insulting. Bitter and arrogant and she hated him. It seemed in turn to suck all the air from the room. Alaryk didn’t even open his eyes, just murmured into the dark. </p><p>“What’s it you want now?”</p><p><i>“They’re gonna kill you, witchblood. Walk you into the water. Fill your lungs and then you’ll drown,”</i> her voice sounded like wind rushing through bare and dead Winter branches.</p><p>“Just like you, mother.” He said it slowly - clipping the end of each word against the back of his throat. His eyes opened to dead darkness. He would think patience a virtue to the dead with nowhere to go. But Verena had been an impatient woman in life, and she had woken him before the sunrise. </p><p>
  <i>“Killed for witchcraft, buried in an unmarked grave, in unhallowed ground. But the witchery hasn’t stopped, has it?”</i>
</p><p>“It’s just a bit of mist and shadow.”</p><p><i>"I told them so. It wasn’t me, it was my cursed son.”</i> Cold settled in as the ghost ranted <i>“Kill the mother, and the witching will stop. Hellfire’s gonna come for you someday, boy.”</i></p><p>“Who’s fault is that,” Alaryk remarked bitterly. “If I leave this place will you leave me alone?”</p><p>The ghost stopped. For a moment Alaryk thought she’d gone.</p><p>
  <i>“I am saving your life, you could be grateful.”</i>
</p><p>“Wouldn’t you want to move on rather than be stuck in this godforsaken town? With me?”</p><p><i>“Unmarked. Unhallowed. Ungrieved. What afterlife awaits me?”</i> the ghost asked resentfully, then with a rushing sound she dispersed. </p><p>“Not fucking this.” Alaryk answered anyway, under his breath, as he finally pushed himself off the bed. His mother’s ghost had given him an opportunity he wasn’t going to waste. Finding the candlewick with a short series of lit matches, he took a thin, round, wooden pendant from the table in his room, carved a sigil into it and passed the symbol over the candle flame a couple of times, chanting the incantation. He’d wear it when they came for him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Trying a Witch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When they came for him in the dim, fog-shrouded morning, he went with them quietly. His death certificate would say he was 25 years old were he to meet his death today as the onlookers so impatiently looked forward to. If he drowned he would be declared innocent and those responsible for his death would move on as was the way of things. And if he survived, judged guilty and hanged. The crowd looked on in apprehension. Alaryk was to die today and they would all be there to bear witness. Alaryk suspected the onlooking crowd hoped he’d panic at the last moment. </p><p>Verena had made her death a spectacle. Kicking and clawing and shrieking all the way to the water, where she was tied to a chair in an effort to subdue her and two men from the village carried her in and tipped the chair back. When the water stopped bubbling she was pulled out, declared dead, and never even afforded a proper funeral. Just buried beneath the thistle on the other side of the graveyard’s iron wall, where the children are warned away. Alaryk might have resented it if Verena had actually loved him, but she hadn’t and so he didn’t. Only took his orphanage in stride, free from his mother at last. He was sixteen when his mother was drowned, and merely a week had passed when the other boys and girls his age decided to take matters into their own hands and tried to stone him. He still bore the scar by his hairline, above his left eye. They were stopped, Lord knows why, by the town clerk William Havel, delaying the inevitability of today. An execution nine years in the making at least. But Alaryk knew what they did not. </p><p>He had come to the river bank quietly and they had only tied his wrists… would it be fair to thank God for that? “Do you confess to witchcraft?” Judge Ivers asked, his voice as solemn as a preacher’s. Alaryk rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. Judge Ivers asked again, “Do you admit to acts of witchcraft or do you plead innocence?” </p><p>“It doesn’t matter what I plead, I die today either way, don’t I?” Alaryk called back. The crowd jeered.</p><p>“Young man-” the Judge stopped when Mr. Havel raised his hand to silence him. The Clerk stood before Alaryk and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and Alaryk realized the Clerk didn’t want to go through this again. They’d all heard the stories of what happened at Waterdeep all those years ago. One death led to another during the witch hunts. They tumbled together and tripped on each other and the tally grew, like notches on the gallows. </p><p>“If you confess they’ll hang you and it could be over,” Havel said, “No need to go about this like your mother,” Alaryk shook his hands before the clerk’s face to show off the rope bindings, and gave Havel the most wicked smile he could. </p><p>“I think I’ll rather walk,” the witchblood hissed. Might as well milk his condemned soul for all it was worth. Havel was desperately trying to keep the town together and did not deserve Alaryk’s acidity. But he gave a resigned nod and stepped out of the way, and thus Alaryk’s little game was truly under way. </p><p>He walked into the water, speaking the incantation quietly before slipping beneath the surface.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cold Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The river was too deep for its own good. Deeper by far than it was wide the center of its bed carved deep into the stone by some ancient glacier sliding down the mountain and through the valley. It moved slowly, too. Oddly slow. </p>
<p>Every once in a while they lost somebody to the river. Always in the very early Spring after the last of the ice had melted. They slipped off the ledge unable to see where it ended through the water and the icy snow melt froze their hearts. They’d be found, always, down river where it was much more shallow and slower still. Alaryk thought of how cold the water would be, so close to the end of Winter. </p>
<p><i>“A cold death for a cold heart, don’t you think boy?”</i> His mother’s voice whispered across the water. It wasn’t the thistle in the corner of the graveyard parents should warn the children from, better to be wary of the cold depths where Verena had died. She’ll pull souls to the bottom of the river, hungry for their warmth and their life. She didn’t want Alaryk though. She didn’t want to spend eternity sharing the river with her witchblood son. He took a breath and another step and slipped into the current. The watching witnesses cheered, and waited for him to surface.</p>
<p>By noon the fog still hadn’t lifted. And the witch’s body still hadn’t been recovered. And all day the people of the village talked. </p>
<p>
  <i>“I knew he was a witch, with those eyes. Should’ve tied him down just like his bitch mother.”</i><br/>
<i>“He’ll turn up half froze on the bank, just you watch,”</i><br/>
<i>“How do you figure that? Where would his body be in the meanwhile?”</i><br/>
<i>“Ain’t nobody could survive that, witch or no. The cold’ll kill you sooner than drowning.”</i>
</p>
<p>Alaryk had carved the sigil on two pendants. Wore one around his neck under his shirt and dropped the other in the well as the sky lightened in the very early hour before the sun crested the mountain. And then the fog rose from the river and settled thick as a fallen thundercloud on the valley village. And then Judge Ivers came for him. </p>
<p>The power of sigils didn’t only lie in the symbol itself, but also in what it was drawn in. Whether it was written in chalk, or charcoal, or carved, or burned. The most potent material was blood, of course, but like chalk, blood could wash or rub away. Alaryk had carved the sigil into wood and sealed it with fire before they came to drown him, and he walked into the depths willingly. Creeping toward the drop.</p>
<p>Alaryk did surface again but not in the river. Having barely pulled it off, the spell had taken nearly everything he had, and he nearly died in the escape. How jarring would it have been for the townsfolk to find his corpse in the well of all places? He slipped his bindings and climbed his way out of the well in the middle of town, coughing hard. Alaryk’s lungs had filled, but he hadn't drowned. He reckoned the water would taste of ash for days. He hoped they’d think of it as a last parting hex. He went back to his mother’s cabin, grabbing his pack and the last few things he needed, then wandered off into the woods to find a place to collapse. He walked as far as he could, and slept until the next morning. </p>
<p>Alaryk walked for three days, just to make it to the next town, following the road from beyond the treeline. From there he hitched a ride to the next, staying ahead of any news from the Gate. Then back to walking, doing odd jobs on the way. Translating scripts to and from Celestial, organizing town records, sorting books, taking inventory at a general store or another always under careful watch by the proprietor. He learned as much as he could in the interim. Changed his clothes one piece at a time, and saved whatever else he had for a train ticket to the farthest town he could get.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Of Stronghold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Many people Alaryk met spurned him instantly. Something about his natural ability for sigil casting set them off. They caught his strange eyes. Felt the odd aspect about him like an early morning graveyard mist. Alaryk found he tipped his hat less in habit of etiquette but more for the purpose of hiding his face. Ultimately most who weren’t already minding their own business gave him a wide berth. There were, of course, a few kind people who were willing to help him out, if he asked. But the people of Stronghold were an anomaly. Strangely accepting, helpful, and they didn’t seem to want the tall, grim, stranger to leave, despite the weirdness that followed like a shadow and his less than inviting demeanor. </p><p>The rancher especially. She stood a mere few inches shorter than he did, her dark auburn hair woven into a long plait that reached her hip. Kalliope boasted a ranch of creatures corrupted by infernal magic and an ancestry of demon hunters. The devil’s horn mounted to her mantlepiece kept her and hers safe, it’s power soaking into the very walls of her home. She took a chance and sat with him at the bar his first night in town and her curiosity must have given to pity as he gave her the short version of whatever answer she asked for. When the hour grew late enough she took his wrist and led him to her house, chattering the entire way. </p><p>When they arrived Kalliope gestured to the small accommodations off the main room. "I don't have guests very often… well, ok, I do, but they're usually sharing my bed, and you..." She trailed off, looking him up and down with mischief in her hazel eyes and punctuating the thought with a telling smile and a shake of her head. "Anyway, you can stay here. For tonight. At least. To start with. Help yourself to the kitchen if you want. Doesn't look like you eat enough anyway." Before Alaryk could respond Kalliope grabbed a throw off the armchair and tossed it at him. "There!" She exclaimed cheerfully, "Goodnight!" and went upstairs.</p><p>Early the next morning Alaryk failed to sneak out. Intending to be on the road out of Stronghold he practically ran into Kalliope on her way back from picking up fresh milk from the general store. Without missing a beat she hooked his arm in hers and walked him back to her kitchen for breakfast, promising something about oatmeal and honey. He was beginning to suspect she was a few apples short of a pie, how swiftly she had taken him in and how casually her life made room for the brother she'd surely always had. "No, I was my parent's only child," She explained when he asked, and he knew, somehow, that it was the truth. Within weeks she had him feeling somehow trapped by an expectation he had never cared about before. Like a feral stray that had been taken in with the hope that it would eventually curl up by the hearth as if it had found home. Within two months he no longer felt like leaving Stronghold. Kalliope having filled a void he hadn’t truly realized was there. She cared about where he was and whether he was all right. It wasn't long before Alaryk harbored the same affection for her in return.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Catching Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blood was the most potent material for sigil casting. The blood of the dying even more so. The desperation. The will to do anything to live. To make one last meaningful act. That sort of drive could fuel all sorts of magic, and Alaryk found his hands were full of it. The gunshot felt nothing like he expected, but the burning sensation as his lung filled with blood felt like an echo from the past, if a bit coppery. If he cast magic he’d be seen, surely, but he was dying already. It wouldn’t matter. Kalliope. He’d be a disappointment, but at least it wouldn’t matter anymore. He reached up, drawing the sigil that came to mind, whispering as he did. “Carne factum caligo et tenebris,” In an instant the horse became a nightmare of mist and shadow and ran off toward the thin line of bandits to sow fear among them. Another round of gunshots as the men fired in panic, bullets passing through the intangible familiar. Alaryk felt an impact - pain driving through him like a railroad spike - then nothing.</p><p>Alaryk was drowning. Voices. The well in the middle of town. </p><p>
  <i>“… … witch…  those eyes… … …”</i><br/>
<i>“… … …  just you watch,”</i><br/>
<i>“How do you figure… … …?”</i><br/>
<i>“… … … survive… witch or no.”</i>
</p><p>Alaryk coughed himself awake and a warm hand squeezed his and the town doctor shushed him gently. Aurora Summers was a ray of sunshine after a storm, with skin even darker than the Sheriff’s, bright green eyes, and a cheerfully hopeful disposition. The light caught in her coiled brown hair, backlighting it into a halo the color of syrup and warm gold. “Hello, sleepyhead,” she said softly.</p><p>“I’m alive.” Alaryk’s voice scraped against his throat.</p><p>“Mm-hmm…” Rory nodded with a smile. Rory always smiled at people like she was overjoyed to see them. Her hospitality was legendary in neighboring towns, even as far as Neverwinter, and she had the bedside manner to match. “Bullet went right through your shoulder,” she tapped him, very lightly right beneath where his clavicle ended. “Lucky it didn’t hit bone. And I pulled the other one out of you…. Here.” She tapped his lower ribs just as carefully. “Think I got all of it, though.”</p><p>“I’m- even though I’m...”  </p><p>“A witch?” Rory supplied. Alaryk winced. </p><p>“Only half-witch.”</p><p>“Kalliope liked your trick with the horse. She’s been bragging about you.”</p><p>“Bragging--?”</p><p>“Heard my name!” Kalliope’s head appeared in the doorway before Alaryk could process. </p><p>“Try not to move too much or you’ll hurt yourself again,” Rory gave Alaryk’s hand one last squeeze and went to speak to their visitor. She was shorter than Kalliope and chubby where the rancher was lean. They spoke to each other quietly, but somewhere in the middle Kalliope glanced at Alaryk and winked. Sheriff Odelle Helder appeared behind them in the hallway and asked the doctor if she could have a word. Rory nodded and took Kalliope’s arm, leading her to the front room.</p><p>“How’re you feeling?” Helder asked, Alaryk ignored the question.</p><p>“Why did you let me live?” </p><p>“You think we’d kill you for a bit of witchcraft?” </p><p>“It’s just a bit of mist and shadow.” He whispered it like his thoughts were elsewhere and for a moment Odelle worried she’d lost him. <i>He had come to the river bank quietly and they had only tied his wrists…</i> A silence hung between them for a few moments, Alaryk picked idly at the buttons of his shirt, doing up the last few at the top. The look on Sheriff Helder’s face suggested the conversation had gone nowhere near where she wanted it to. She shook her head and switched tracks.</p><p>“You’ve lived in Stronghold for a year now, and nobody got a surname for you.” </p><p>“I don’t have one.”</p><p>“None?”</p><p>“I was…” Memories came back like flashes of heat lightning, “Orphaned.”</p><p>“Kalliope claims you as kin, what do you think of that?” Odelle asked. Alaryk found he was at a loss. Kalliope talked, but surely she didn’t honestly consider the witchblood her brother. Not after… not now that she knew what he was. Alaryk narrowed his eyes at Sheriff Helder.</p><p>“Why the sudden interest in my name?” </p><p>“Never you mind that.” Odelle sighed. “All right, here.” She tossed something round and shiny at him. He didn’t bother trying to catch it, just picked it out of the folds of the blanket. The Stronghold Deputy’s Badge.</p><p>“Congratulations, Deputy,” Odelle tipped her hat at him.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because we lost Deputy Elliston in the fight, and you cast magic to protect my sister’s farm.”</p><p>Alaryk said nothing. Odelle finally gave up waiting and turned to go.</p><p>“All right.” He said. </p><p>“Excuse me?” Helder turned back around</p><p>“My surname… yeah. If Kalliope will take me. My surname. It’s Oakenheart.”</p><p>“Well then,” the sheriff tipped her hat to him, “Congratulations Deputy Oakenheart.”</p>
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